


Silver and Gold

by Winterling42



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Gen, Platonic Romance, Platonic Soulmates, Prose Poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2016-02-25
Packaged: 2018-05-23 02:31:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6101829
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterling42/pseuds/Winterling42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Wives are not <i>soulmates</i> (except that they make themselves souls out of each other's bones, given freely)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silver and Gold

**Author's Note:**

> honestly I'm not sure where this came from?? But I like it a lot? So ta da. Double posting by me today.

The Wives are not _soulmates_. They do not, cannot _all_ fit together so that there are no seams. The Dag is too stubborn, Toast too angry. Capable too afraid. There are not red strings to knot them all together.

But. But. They pick up pieces of each other, and hold on to them. Capable holds Toast’s singing deep inside her chest, hums the tune to herself when she’s braiding her hair. Cheedo combs out the Dag’s silk-fine hair, when the Dag herself is too impatient, will rip knots out with her fingers, careless of blood. Angharad is a little bit in all of them, her fire and her fearsome smile. The first time Toast smiles back at her, Angharad’s daemon almost laughs.

When the Dag is lost to herself, fingers clutched around each other so tight that bones creak, it’s Capable who can rub her fingertips across the runes written there, press her lips to each white knuckle and peel the hands apart like some unripe fruit, beautiful and delicate as moth wings. When Cheedo flings her books across the room, screams at Miss Giddy that she’ll never learn to read, it’s Angharad who puts a hand on her shoulder, picks up another book, and sits down with her in the old school chairs.

They are not made for each other, crafted like a multitude of keys and locks. (And who would be the lock, and who the key? There is only ever one door between them and freedom. One door and an entire Citadel.) They are, like the rest of the Wasteland, found things, made into something less broken by each others’ presence. Somehow, together, they remain whole.


End file.
